Tessin and Major Shackleton looked suddenly towards Wyley in recognition of the accuracy of his guess.  Scrope simply wiped the perspiration from his forehead and waited.

“But how does that—­forgetfulness, shall we say?—­persuade you to the fear that you played the coward?” asked Wyley.

“Well,” replied Knightley, and his voice sank to a whisper, “I played the coward afterwards at Mequinez.  At the first it used to amuse me to wonder what happened after I opened the door and before I was captured outside Tangier; later it only puzzled me, and in the end it began to frighten me.  You see, I could not tell; it was all a blank to me, as it is now; and a man overdriven—­well, he nurses sickly fancies.  No need to say what mine were until the day I played the coward in Mequinez.  They set me to build the walls of the Emperor’s new Palace.  We used the stones of the old Roman town and built them up in Mequinez, and in the walls we were bidden to build Christian slaves alive to the glory of Allah.  I refused.  They stripped the flesh off my feet with their bastinadoes, starved me of food and drink, and brought me back again to the walls.  Again I refused.”  Knightley looked up at his audience, and whether or no he mistook their breathless silence for disbelief,—­“I did,” he implored.  “Twice I refused, and twice they tortured me.  The third time—­I was so broken, the whistle of a cane in the air made me cry out with pain—­I was sunk to that pitch of cowardice—­” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.  He clasped and unclasped his hands convulsively, he moistened his dry lips with his tongue, and looked about him with a weak, almost despairing laugh.  Then he began in another way.  “The Christian was a Portuguee from Marmora.  He was set in the wall with his arms outstretched on either side—­the attitude of a man crucified.  I built in his arms—­his right arm first—­and mortised the stones, then his left arm in the same way.  I was careful not to look in his face.  No, no!  I didn’t look in his face.”  Knightley repeated the words with a horrible leer of cunning, and hugged himself with his arms.  To Wyley’s thinking he was strung almost to madness.  “After his arms I built in his feet, and upwards from his feet I built in his legs and his body until I came to his neck.  All this while he had been crying out for pity, babbling prayers, and the rest of it.  When I reached his neck he ceased his clamour.  I suppose he was dumb with horror.  I did not know.  All I knew was that now I should have to meet his eyes as I built in his face.  I thought for a moment of blinding him.  I could have done it quite easily with a stone.  I picked up a stone to do it, and then, well—­I could not help looking at him.  He drew my eyes to his like a steel filing to a magnet.  And once I had looked, once I had heard his eyes speaking, I—­I tore down the stones.  I freed his body, his legs, his feet and one arm.  When the guards noticed what I was